"Come on, Johnny," Ringo said, "Shake it off."
He clapped a hand on John's shoulder as they stood waiting to be attacked, devoured and spit out on this their first American press conference since the explosion over the Jesus comment John had made to a journalist friend back in London months ago.
George looked out from behind the curtain and glared at the sea of press waiting to get a nip. Paul stared blankly at a wall, biting his thumbnail while John, who knew he was the main course today, chain-smoked ciggie after ciggie, ash dropping everywhere. He flicked his latest smoke away without looking.
"'Ere, watch that! You'll start me on fire," Paul yelped, suddenly coming to life as the cigarette flew past his face.
"Better here than out there," John gestured with his head to the eagerly waiting crowd in the conference room.
"Ah, shit, John," Paul said tiredly. "Just tell them what they want to hear."
John frowned at the idea. He had never expected that one statement to be taken so out of context and completely blown out of proportion like it had in the States. He was shaken to the core by the sudden hate mail and kids burning their records. Already this world tour had taken on a nightmarish cast with the Japanese and Philipine experiences.
Now this. Weird men in white sheets and pointed hats proclaiming they'll teach the Beatles a lesson during their concert in Memphis. All of the Beatles' nerves were raw.
"Seems to me we once had a conversation about remaining true to ourselves and not bloody selling out through this whole thing," John replied rather hotly.
Paul sighed, took John by an arm and guided him to a more private corner. "Look," he started quietly, "I know how you feel about that, and if things were normal, I'd agree with you one hundred percent. But I think you know the deep shit we're in here, and what kind of pressure it could cause during this fucking tour if you don't do what they are expecting you to do."
John looked at him; exhaustion, anger, frustration and fear all stenciled in his face. "Bloody, fucking hell," he sighed, "I know, I know."
"You can do this," Paul said more gently, gripping him firmly by the forearms.
John furiously rubbed a hand across his brow as if trying to scrub away any sign of weakness. "Ahh, let's get it over with."
George wandered over. "They're all a bunch of piranha, John. Don't take it to heart."
Ringo also joined them. "Yeah, all bite and no brain. Don't let it get to you, John."
Brian stood nervously in the wings, anxiously watching John. Although he had tried to check the furor with an official press statement before it erupted, the American press had only been too glad to jump on any sort of dirt connected to his boys. Now it was up to John.
Neil and Mal shot nervous glances around the room. Security was getting to be hellish with all the threats and violent emotions people were displaying. Neil finally had no choice but to let the Beatles know it was time to go out.
Almost as soon as they were seated at the table, the press descended on John. The other Beatles chipped in with supportive comments when they could, but finally John was forced into the apology that he never anticipated having to make.
"I'm sorry I said it, really. I never meant it to be a lousy anti-religious thing..."
Hearing the word "sorry" seemed to satisfy most of the journalists in the crowd. After a few more attempts to draw John out, they subsided and Brian signaled for the conference to come to an end. The Beatles exited in a hurry, without their usual good-natured bantering.
The group immediately went into the elevator to escape to their suite. Everyone was quiet, relieved that at least that part of it was over. John put a hand over his face. Paul, standing next to him, felt the tension. "John?"
John wouldn't look at him. He shook his head violently. "Just let me alone, Paul," he grated.
Paul felt his own eyes tear up. He knew how completely broken John must've felt to have to perform for the press like he did. "C'mon, Lennon. I'll buy you a cold one."
Then John did look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot. "I was just trying to tell the truth," he said raggedly. "I didn't mean to create another fucking place of hate in the world."
And he broke down, turning away from them all toward the elevator wall, his shoulders heaving. Paul, George and Ringo exchanged pained glances. Always outspoken, usually volatile, John almost never let down his guard like this. The pressure on him had been intense. Even though the others supported him, he was the one responsible for the death threats they were now receiving. None of them, not even Paul, were enjoying this tour. And it had only just begun.
They reached their floor. John brushed past the rest of them and walked into the suite first, going into his room and slamming the door. Brian was about to go after him, but George held him back with his arm. "Let him be, Brian, or you'll be sorry. I guarantee it."
Brian looked at him in dismay but followed his advice. "I'll just go to my rooms then," he said. "You let me know how he's doing."
"Right, Eppy," Paul said tonelessly, heading to the wet bar where all the liquor was kept. "Let's get stinking drunk, lads."
Many scotch and cokes later, the three of them were sprawled in a circle on the floor. John had still not appeared.
"Well," said Ringo, "Is someone going to go get him?"
George and Paul looked at him with rather panic-stricken expressions.
"You've always gotten on well with him," George suggested.
Ringo stared at him, then pointed at Paul. "But he's known him longest!"
"That's exactly why I'm not going in there," Paul replied.
Ringo sighed, "Tell Maureen I love her," and walked unsteadily to the bedroom door and knocked.
